


One Hundred

by ascandalonbakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Death, Drug Use, Drugs, F/M, Hurt Sherlock, John and Mary's Wedding, Series 2, Series 3, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sleepy Sherlock, Uni!lock, University, i think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-14 15:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascandalonbakerstreet/pseuds/ascandalonbakerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One hundred ways to say 'I love you', ninety-nine of which exclude the obvious. // Set in the same universe as William. Can be read as stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pull over. Let me drive for a while.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's driving Molly to his parents' house for a family party... or at least he should be.

2002

 

Molly turns down the radio, as though lowering the volume at which P!nk blares into the car —  _“Pink?” “Yeah.” “Pee, eye,_ enn _-" "No. Pee, exclamation mark,_ enn _, kay." “That’s ridiculous.” “Sherlock, shut up.”_ — changes the fact that they’re a fair distance from where they should be.

  

“What on earth have you been doing the entire time we’ve been driving? How in aiming for Sussex have we ended up in Maidstone?” She points frantically at an obnoxiously blue before her eyes flit back to the map she’d printed off earlier.

 

“Molly, do calm down.” 

 

“Calm down? Sherlock, we’re going to be two hours late. The traffic's insane because some wanker’s digging up the A2. Cambridge to Sussex should only have taken two hours in the first place.” She’s barely finished her sentence before he snaps back, louder than he’d anticipated.

 

“Will you shut up?!” He inhales deeply, willing away his brewing headache, and lowers his voice. “Sorry. Molly, I’ve never been on time to a single family function in my entire life, and most of them were held in my own house. I really wouldn’t worry.”

 

“While I don’t doubt that for a second, arriving at ten o’clock to a party that started at eight isn’t the way I wanted to meet your family for the first time.”

 

“Half of it’s down to roadworks and the other’s down to me proving that you can’t be good at everything. Nobody will blame you.” She can’t help but chuckle a little bit. He smirks before continuing. “Anyway, there’s thirty other people there. That should be a sufficient distraction from our absence. Mycroft could do a fairly good job on his own, actually.” An audible yawn slips out around the closed fist hovering in front of his mouth. He groans as they get stopped at yet another red light; Molly frowns in his general direction.

 

“What?” He turns to look at her for barely half a second, but it’s long enough for her to catch the black smudges under his eyes.

 

“Alright?” Her voice has softened considerably since a few moments ago.

 

“I’m fine.” He shifts in his seat, switching gears as the lights turn green. She thinks back to seven o’clock this morning when she’d stumbled half-asleep into their living area and found Sherlock eight pages and three diagrams into his notes. 

 

“What time did you get up today?”

 

“Molly—“

 

“Answer the question, please.” She raises an eyebrow.

 

“Half five.”

 

“And what time did you go to sleep last night?” He hesitates, eventually deciding to tell the truth. She'd figure it out anyway.

 

“…Half three.”

 

“Jesus Christ.” 

 

“Almost. Sherlock will do, though.” She laughs despite herself.

 

**“Pull over. Let me drive for a while.”**

 

“Molly, I’m okay.”

 

“No, you’re not. You look shattered, and I’d rather get to your mum and dad’s in one piece if it’s all the same to you. Come on.” He sighs, but follows her instructions and turns into the next side road. Once she's situated in the driving seat, she turns down the radio a little bit more and turns the heating up. He’s asleep within ten minutes; head tilted back against the headrest.

 

With a drastically more competent driver at the wheel, they arrive only an hour and a quarter late. Sherlock introduces Molly to everybody and watches on fondly as she greets his parents with warm embraces and apologises profusely. She spends the night having conversations with his aunt that she talks about for the next six months, and by two in the morning, the last of the guests have retreated to their own homes. Sherlock and his older brother – who she has promised not to refer to as Mike – are finishing off a tube of Pringles as their parents begin to deal with the aftermath. Molly insists on helping them, collecting empty bottles in a black bag while maintaining a steady stream of conversation with Sherlock’s mum. 

 

When they eventually get to bed – Sherlock and Molly pressed back to back and sharing a single pillow – she’s fairly sure he nods off immediately. She’s proven wrong, however, when his low, hoarse whisper emerges between the slow, deep breaths from his side of the bed.

“Molly?”

“Mm?”

“Don’t tell my mum you drove my car uninsured. She’ll hang me.”


	2. It reminded me of you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs stitching up again, but he's brought something with him this time.

2013

 

Sherlock hisses and jerks his body away from her hands; an automatic response to the sensation of liquid flushing through the gash that’s running vertically from the bottom of his armpit to the lower part of his chest. The detective and his pathologist – or surgeon, as it stands, though she supposes he's legally dead anyway – have once again resorted to turning Molly’s bedroom into their makeshift hospital room. With the duvet long since abandoned, Sherlock lies flat on his back on the mattress with one arm tucked behind his head, serving the dual purpose of letting Molly access the cut and making it easier for him to tangle his fingers in his hair when he wants to scream. Molly sits on a desk chair next to the bed, working by the artificial light of her energy-saving bulbs. 

 

“Molly, please.” He’s speaking through his teeth, and his chest is heaving (she can’t imagine that’s helping the pain very much, seeing as the wound stretches every time his chest expands, but doesn’t see any benefit to telling him that).

 

“Alright, alright.” She stops for a moment, using one hand to press a formerly white bathroom towel to the area below the laceration to catch the excess saline. The other is resting on his thigh, her thumb rubbing slow circles to try and calm him down. She lets him take a couple of deep breaths and compose himself before she speaks again.

 

“I know it hurts, but you need to stay still, or I’m going to make it worse.” Sherlock just nods as his breathing returns to normal.

 

“Carry on.” He squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“Are you sure? I can stop for a little while.”

 

“No. Just fix it.” So, true to form, she does. Once she’s finished cleaning the wound, she’s forced to stitch it closed (forced to ignore him whimpering every time she breaks the skin with the needle or pulls the thread taut), stopping twice because he’s certain he’s going to be sick on account of the pain. On both of those occasions – and she thanks every God she can think of – he’s wrong.

 

Half an hour later, she’s taping a piece of gauze and some cling film to his torso and telling him to jump in the shower, with promises of tea and Jeremy Kyle for the trouble. Though he needs help sitting up, nothing else compels him to hesitate for even a second.

 

He emerges after twenty minutes, hair damp and excessively (endearingly) curly, wearing a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms and an unzipped sweatshirt that she’s almost certain he’s had since their second year at Cambridge. She looks down at her Spice Girls tour t-shirt and doesn’t comment, just thrusts a mug of tea into his hands and peels away the cling film. When he’s settled on her sofa with his tea, mumbling quietly about how preposterous it is even to consider that the man in the Adidas hat is responsible for stealing the money that the woman in the pink top had saved for her daughter’s christening, she retrieves his dirty clothes from the bedroom and hovers in front of the washing machine as she searches the pockets. The t-shirt and jumper go straight in, but when she puts her hand into the left pocket of his jeans, she doesn’t emerge empty handed. Instead, her fingers are closed around a crocheted cherry. She frowns (smirks); bemused.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“What’s this?” She holds it up by its woollen stem. He glances at it before refocussing his attention to the television, red heat pouring across his cheeks.

 

“Bought it at a market in Slovakia. **It reminded me of you**. Cardigan you wear sometimes.” She smiles.

 

“What do you want me to do with it?” He stays still and silent for a moment, before extending the hand that he isn’t using to nurse his tea. She drops the object into his palm, their touch lingering for a split second. His fingers tighten around it, and he pulls his hand back, pushing it into the pocket of his hoodie. He silently sips his tea; eyes fixed on the television. 

 


	3. No, no. It's my treat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to take Molly out for lunch, and faces the unusual task of plucking up the courage to ask her.

2002

 

He’s been trying to get his voice box to do its job for five minutes now; even the voice in his head is stuttering. They’re sat opposite each other at the worn wooden table in their living room while Molly copies up diagrams from her textbook and Sherlock corrects the grammar in his. Whenever she’s particularly focussed Sherlock lets his eyes drift from his book, choosing instead to study the way that Molly’s hands move when she’s shading arteries. He'll remember it later.

 

“Alright, Sherlock?” She asks, and he realises he’s been watching her for too long. “You look a bit… distant.” He nods, clears his throat, and glances out of the window into Great Court. 

 

“Do you want coffee?” He has to make a conscious effort to stop himself from rolling his eyes; that was possibly the least eloquent thing to ever slip between his lips. He looks back at her now; he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

 

“No, I’m okay.” She shrugs, scrunches up her nose. He tries not to smile. “Could do with some lunch, though, so I’ll make you one. Black, two sugars, yeah?” She pushes her chair away from the table and makes to stand up.

 

“No!” She freezes. “No,” Softer, this time. “I mean do you want to go out for coffee? Or lunch, if you’re hungry.” What is wrong with him? She shakes her head and his stomach turns itself inside out.

 

“I can’t really afford it at the moment,” She shrugs. “I haven’t been able to work enough hours because of this lot.” She gestures at the table.

 

 **“No, no. It’s my treat.”** He starts to close his textbook when he sees her shoulders relax.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Have I ever been anything but?” He feels his own shoulders relax too; _that_ sounds more like him. Molly laughs.

 

“Alright, then.” She grabs her coat, slips it on, and settles her hair. “I’ll pay you back when I can.” She promises, glancing back at him while he locks the door behind them.

 

“No, you won’t.” He smiles, “Come on.”


	4. Come here. Let me fix it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a last minute panic before his speech, Sherlock bumps into Molly.

2014 

 

The happy couple and those that are gathered here today have devoured their meals; Sherlock has rearranged and deconstructed his. He should know by now that nothing gets past Mary, and yet he remains petulant and brooding when she looks past John to point forcefully at his plate with her fork. Precisely three seconds after Janine replaces her champagne glass on the table, Sherlock raises his. He presses his lips together and rests the rim of his glass against them, tips the glass up – too rapidly for him to decipher the angle: disappointing – lets the liquid touch his mouth but never enter it, replaces the glass on the table. When John next turns to Mary, he evacuates the reception hall to quietly compose himself: his phone call with Mycroft has unsettled him more than he’d care to admit, and his speech is minutes away.

 

Mirror, doorway, table, staircase, plant, clock, window.

 

Window, clock, plant, staircase, table, doorway, mirror.

 

Mirror, doorway, table, staircase, plant, clock, window.

 

Window, clock, plant, staircase, table, doorway, mirror.

 

Mirror, doorway, table, staircase, footsteps, high-heels, Molly.

 

Footsteps, high-heels, Molly.

 

Molly.

 

“Afternoon, Best Man.” She beams, and the yellow of her dress seems suddenly dull in comparison. The corners of Sherlock’s lips twitch upwards, but his eyes are unwaveringly, unnaturally unmoving. Her smile is no longer conducting light, merely radiating warmth. She rests her hand on his upper arm, squeezes: she has tipped over the first in an infinite line of dominoes, the warmth reverberates and the tension in his body dissipates before she opens her mouth. “Enlighten me, then.” She releases his arm. “What’s the matter? Can’t just be the speech, public speaking’s sort of your speciality.”

 

“Nothing at all, Molly. Just ensuring that my mind is clear in order to give my full attention to the task at hand.” His response comes quickly enough that he is certain she’ll believe him.

 

“If you say so.” Maybe not, then. What she lacks in observational skills she makes up for in acute emotional perception, he supposes. Sherlock move to steeple his hands beneath his chin but is stopped by Molly’s exclamation. “Ah! Put your arms down, you’ve knocked your boutonniere!” Sherlock groans audibly.

 

“I had to get Mary to put it on in the first place.” He glances downwards, unable to ignore the fact that the ribbon-encased stem of the flower no longer runs parallel to his lapel. Molly laughs, edging closer towards him.

 

 **“Come here. Let me fix it.”** Her voice is liquid gold.

 

“Thank you.” His voice reverberates as her touch did. She smiles again, her eyes fixed on the pin between her fingers.

 

“No problem.” She assures him. Her hand rests momentarily on his chest before slipping away.

 

“You ready, mate?” Lestrade’s voice shatters their brief silence as he emerges from the hall. “John’s starting to think you’ve done a runner, and Mrs Hudson’s already cried twice.” Molly laughs, Sherlock nods.

 

A silent vote of confidence passes between the two of them as their paths bisect. As soon as he’s retaken his seat, he’s up again.

 

“Pray silence for the best man.”

 

He’s certain her applause is the loudest.


	5. I'll walk you home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case has kept Sherlock - and by extension, Molly - at Barts for longer than anticipated.

2008

 

It shouldn’t have taken anywhere near this long to wrap the case up. The near-impeccable forgery of one of the documents that had proven the innocence of the victim’s sister had led them to the wrong suspect.  

 

That was 39 hours ago, on a case that was two days deep already. Sherlock has now been sat at the same desk for approximately 8 hours; Molly has been sat opposite him for 7 and a half.

 

“Can you check this?” Sherlock pipes up after a 57-minute silence. Molly glances up from her paperwork, visibly tired, and sighs before she responds.

 

“Check what?” She tightens her ponytail.

 

“If I’ve identified this correctly. I’m starting to think I’m making it up so I can finish the case and find a more interesting one.” Molly laughs, rising from her seat and joining him on the opposite side of the table. She reads his notes over his shoulder, one hand on the desk and one on the small of his back, reminding him to sit up straight if he’s going to stay in this position for so long. He stretches beneath her hand, taking a deep breath as she finishes reading.

 

“Yeah,” she nods. “Seems right to m—”

 

“Where’s Lestrade?” He jumps to his feet. Molly smiles as the sparkle returns to his eyes and his shoulders broaden.

 

“He’s in the canteen, I think.” Sherlock is halfway out the door before she finishes the sentence. He’ll have to come back at some point, though; he’s forgotten his phone. In his absence she tidies up the lab: stacks all of her paperwork and his case notes, puts all of the equipment away. She’s already been here three hours longer than she should have been, but the thought of coming to work tomorrow to meet this mess is bordering on abhorrent.

 

 

Sherlock returns half an hour later, the sparkle in his eyes is still there but is dulled slightly by the recent appearance of dark circles. She’s been ready to leave for twenty minutes, coat zipped up and bag slung over her shoulder, but she didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. She waves his phone in his general direction as the door closes behind him. He frowns.

 

“Is that mine?” He asks, hands searching his coat pockets.

 

“You left it on the table.” She clarifies, handing it to him. “What did you come back for if you didn’t realise you’d left your phone?”

 

“To see if you were still here. It’s late, and after solving that, I’m not eager to have you go home alone. **I’ll walk you home**.” He props the door open with his foot.

 

“I’m a big girl, Sherlock.” She laughs. Sherlock takes a second to decide if he should press the matter: shifting her weight on her feet, twisting the ends of her hair between her fingertips. Press the matter indeed.

 

“So was Mrs. Caldwell.” He raises his eyebrows; she rolls her eyes.

 

“Alright.” She shrugs and walks through the open doorway.


	6. Have a good day at work.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Sherlock returns.

2012

 

In fairness, Mycroft had forewarned her that Sherlock would periodically appear at her flat during his self-inflicted exile; he couldn’t feasibly go anywhere else. Regardless, the first time he shows up, she’s unprepared. She’s been in her pyjamas for ages and is half an hour into an episode of Masterchef when he knocks on the door. She emits an audible gasp at the sight of him. She takes in his appearance: slightly grubby skin, hair greasy and unkempt under his hood. There’s a rip in the arm of his jacket, and the consequently visible skin tells her his shirt must be short-sleeved. His trousers are stained in various colours, one of which is unmistakably dried blood. Still, he is in fact in front of her, and she cannot stop herself from leaping on him. She pulls away when she hears him suck the air through his teeth as he attempts to hug her back.

 

“Where are you hurting?” She mutters, and he appreciates her not asking if he’s okay.

 

“Bloody everywhere.” She closes her door and pushes the hood of his jacket down. She presses her lips together in a sympathetic smile.

 

“Anything I can fix right now?” He shakes his head.

 

“Just need—“ He thinks about how that sentence has to end if he’s going to be honest, and thinks better of it. “Never mind.”  

 

“Go on.” She coaxes.

 

“Just need to rest on something that isn’t made of concrete, somewhere that I won’t be woken up by being asked not to sleep in doorways in a language I’ve just learnt.” His voice has become incredibly quiet by the time the sentence is over. “Can I stay?” She smiles, gently rubbing his arm. 

 

“Go and have a shower and I’ll make you something to eat. Mycroft had someone drop some clean stuff round for you a while ago. Clothes and things. They’re in the spare room.” He looks a little bit bewildered, but thanks her and heads off to have his shower.

 

When she hears the water running, she takes a couple of minutes to let the situation sink in and then checks her cupboards to see what she can make him. She knows he’s never liked Pot Noodle, even when he was 19 and drunk, so that’s out of the question. He is partial to cheese, though, so when she spots a bag of pasta, she opts to make the dinner she was supposed to cook herself tomorrow. She’s sure it’ll keep. He emerges as she’s draining the pasta, clad in a pair of black drawstring pyjama bottoms and a navy pullover. She’s rarely seen him wear socks with pyjamas before, but can’t blame him for seeking all the warmth he can get; the coldness of the black and white tile on her kitchen floor still shocks her sometimes.

 

“Better?” She asks, smiling. He nods and takes a seat at the small wooden table in the middle of her kitchen. She sets the plate down in front of him and takes a seat herself. “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t want to.”

 

As it happens, he does finish it. Molly’s a genuinely good cook, but she could have put anything in front of him, and he’d have finished it: he can’t remember the last time he had a full meal. She maintains small talk while he eats. She’s over the moon when he laughs, but as soon as he’s finished, he gets quiet. She knows he’s exhausted; he’s exhausted in every possible sense of the word and his battle with Moriarty has barely even started. She flicks the kettle on and silently prepares two mugs of tea: hers with no sugar and an absurd amount of milk, his with three sugars and a splash of milk. He’s frowning at the table when she’s finished.

 

“Sherlock.” He looks up at her. “Come on. Let’s go and watch something.” He follows, silent and obedient – worrying in itself. They sit, close and quiet, sipping tea and watching 8 Out of 10 Cats. Molly’s laughing, and Sherlock’s still frowning. The pool of Molly’s fleece dressing gown is draped over the side of Sherlock’s leg; a reminder of how close they are to each other. A reminder that he’s back in the right country for a little while and is still breathing. He sets his mug on the floor next to the sofa, and collapses sideways, pillowing his head on one of her throw cushions. She hasn’t seen him like this in years, and it’s tugging every last string in her heart. She rests her hand on top of his thigh and gently runs her thumb across his leg. She knows he’ll be alright in the morning, but he’s not at the moment, and the fact she can’t do anything to change that is eating her alive. She watches his blinking become gradually slower, and when it stops altogether she pats his leg and stands up. His eyes snap open.

 

“You’re already hurting, can’t have you sleeping on the sofa. Let’s get you to bed.” She helps him up and gets him settled in the spare room, and then retreats to her own.

 

Two hours later, 1:35 am, Molly’s door creaks open. She’s a light enough sleeper that it wakes her. Her eyes adjust to the darkness, and the light from the hallway outlines Sherlock’s silhouette in the doorway. She’s not going to ask him for an explanation, not going to ask how long he’s been trying to fall asleep; she’s not even going to make him ask if he can come in. She quietly shuffles back in the bed, and pulls the duvet back. His acceptance of the invitation is a silent one, bar his contended sigh as he settles into the sleep-warm blankets and his sleep-warm Molly. This happened once every few months in university. He’d work himself to the bone and then he’d crash. That simple. This, though… this was new. Regardless, she’s sure the same tricks will work. With Sherlock on his back, she presses her body tight against his side and lifts one arm. Her fingertip traces across his brow in one direction, and then back again. Down the slope of his nose, and repeat. 

 

Unsurprisingly, he sleeps through her alarm the following morning. She rises carefully so as not to jostle the bed, and completes her morning routine in the bathroom. Rather than risk waking him, she leaves him a note.

 

_Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Bread in the cupboard. Eggs, bacon, milk in the fridge. Eat something and then get some more rest. Be home at 6. Molly X_

Forty-five minutes after she leaves, she receives a text from an unknown number.

****

_Thank you. **Have a good day at work.** -SH_


	7. I dreamt about you last night.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They haven't spoken to each other in months. Sherlock Holmes did not fall into the wrong crowd - he jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be a little bit confusing to place chronologically if you've not read William, but I wasn't sure how else to fill this prompt without it seeming out of character on either part. Essentially, this chapter assumes that Sherlock and Molly went to university together, and though they were inseparable for the first two years, they stop talking when Sherlock starts taking drugs. Enjoy x

2000

 

Third year. They don’t talk anymore, but he’s only got himself to blame for that: Sherlock Holmes did not fall into the wrong crowd – he jumped. He craves stimulation, and the clue’s in the word, isn’t it? Stimulant. He pretends not to see her when her eyes follow him as he walks into lectures twenty minutes late, never stops to talk as he passes her seat on the way out, eager to be the first one out of the door. So she watches from afar, breaking her heart over the fact that as long as he’s using, he’s _being_ used; giving other people money to buy his drugs and never getting his money’s worth. Christ, imagine how she’d feel if she knew that he was _letting_ himself be used. As long as he’s useful to them, they won’t let him go. As long as they need him, he doesn’t have to admit that he needs _someone_.

 

He’s never wished that wasn’t true more than he does now. Sat alone in somebody else’s kitchen on a chair that’s making him wish his mind could be as numb as his body with his knees to his chest and his hands to his ears, doing everything in his power to slow his breathing down.  

 

“You alright, mate?” He can’t place the voice, decides it must be someone they’ve just made acquaintance with – ‘they’ not extending to him. The voice and its carrier stills in the doorway, seemingly afraid that Sherlock might shatter if their proximity is altered. Sherlock cannot say with certainty that he won’t.

 

“F-fine.” He presses his hands impossibly closer to his head.

 

“Okay if I just get something from the fridge?” He points, but Sherlock’s eyes stay fixed in the floor in front of him as he tries to understand why the voice is making him want to cry. The boy works quickly, crossing the room and retreating again in twenty seconds flat. He hears a shadow of the voice come from down the hall, and knows that he wasn’t supposed to. “Who’s the nutcase in the kitchen?”

 

He doesn’t stay for the answer, runs out the back door and squeezes through a gap in the fence.

 

When he gets back to his room it’s midnight and he’s run all the way there because he was scared of getting killed in the dark and part of him wishes he had been and he’s still shaking and he wishes he’d never tried to stimulate his mind because he can’t fucking stop thinking and he needs to take something else before he goes insane every thought leads to another thought and every thought is hurting him and he can’t find the needle where did he put the fucking needle he knows that this is all down to the cocaine and he’s certain that the needle is the epipen he’s certain that if he could just stop his hands from shaking and find the vein instead of letting his mind play dot to dot with the marks on his arms and find the strength to make the syringe go then he’d stop thinking all together and everything would be okay and he’ll be happy again if only for a little w-

 

He drops the needle to the floor and waits for the rush to pass – that’s not what he took it for. All he wants to do is sleep. He takes off his shoes and jeans, leaving himself in a t-shirt and a sweatshirt he bought in his first year. The sleeves are fraying, but he appreciates that he’s not the only thing in the world that’s worn out. He knows he’ll hate himself in the morning if he doesn’t close the curtains and turn the lights off, and no sooner has he done it than he’s swathing himself in blankets. When he’s certain that it’s wearing off he starts shouting in his head. He wishes he would whisper but he can’t control the volume. 100. 99. 98. 97. He doesn’t make it to 90 – not because he falls asleep, because he loses count.

 

When he wakes he’s unscathed by the fact he’s missed two morning lectures. With everything he’d taken yesterday he’s hardly surprised that he still feels miserable, and that his sleep was not a noiseless one. He is completely unable to forget that last night he dreamt singularly of a girl he is forcing himself to abstain from – there is nothing more addictive than Molly Hooper, and nothing more destructive than attachment. Still, he reasons – excuses – he’s not very good with handling addictions, is he?

 

So he grabs his second phone – reserved for drug dealers, and she is nothing if not that – because he thinks he’s lost the first and texts her, because he needs to tell her and she needs to know. It only makes sense to remember things that are useful – really useful – and so he types her number from memory.

 

**_I dreamt about you last night._ **

 

He realises then that she won’t know who it is.

 

_-SH_

He doesn’t get a reply. He supposes that she’s better equipped in the way of willpower than he is.


	8. Take my seat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's having a family emergency.

2002

 

When they gave out of here, Sherlock muses, he’s going to have a stern word with his brother about the state of the NHS. Molly’s dad went into cardiac arrest at eleven o’clock, and Molly’s world had stopped turning. When the call had ended, she moved so quickly that she knocked her chair over, bounding across the living room and bursting into Sherlock’s room, eyes scanning until she spotted his figure curled up in the bed. She advanced on him rapidly, shaking his shoulder.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Mm?” He mumbled, forcing his eyes to focus.

 

“Have you had a drink tonight?” Her words were tripping over each other in their haste to stumble off of her tongue.

 

“No.” He frowned, suddenly awake and pushed the duvet away from his shoulders. “What’s the matter?”

 

“Can you drive?"

 

“Yes. Molly, what’s happened?” He rises from the bed.

 

“My dad.” Her voice faltered, and she pressed her palms to her eyes. “Heart attack.”

 

“Alright. It’s alright. Go and get your coat, I’m going to put some jeans on and find my keys and then we’re going to go to the hospital, okay?” She nodded wordlessly.

 

That was nearly four hours ago. Sherlock had driven as fast as he possibly could without merging with the car in front of him, and they’d arrived as soon as they could. It’s now pushing three in the morning and, there’s still been no word of progress or, God forbid, a lack thereof. All she wants is for a doctor to come and tell her what’s going on. She knows this is a risk of his treatment, that this was always a possibility, but the pure uncertainty of the whole situation is proving to be earth shattering. A series of what ifs and maybes are putting on a sinister acrobatics performance in her head and she can’t seem to get anything to stay still, including herself. A singular pale green armchair is situated inside her dad’s usual room, beside the bed he is usually occupying. When they’d arrived she, was far too pent up to sit down, and Sherlock did so instead. She’s been pacing ever since, her shoes on the wooden floor the only sound in the room. Sherlock watches her grow increasingly overwrought and proportionally weary. Her posture is enough to tell him that she’s still fighting with her tears – impossibly straight back, digging her nails into her palms, the tensing of her jaw – and if she doesn’t stop soon she’s going to collapse. He knows first hand the consequences of mental exhaustion capitalising on physical.

 

“Molly.” She doesn’t even notice he’s speaking. He clears his throat and tries again. “Molly.” She turns to him so quickly that he wonders if she’s given herself whiplash.

 

“What?” She snaps. He perseveres.

 

“ **Take my seat.** ” He goes to stand up.

 

“I don’t want your seat.” He retreats.

 

“You can’t keep pacing like this; you’re driving yourself mad.” His voice, as far as she’s concerned, is frustratingly steady.

 

“If fairness, Sherlock, I don’t think you’re the best person in the world to take advice on personal wellbeing from, are you?” He silently reminds herself that it isn’t him she’s angry with and, for her sake, maintains his stoicism; lets her take it out on him. “Go home. I don’t need you here.”

 

“I’m not leaving you here. Please just sit down.”

 

“I don’t want to sit down, Sherlock! Just shut up!” Her voice falters and the tears she’s been building up since she’d heard the news finally start to fall. It’s not really his style, but he knows what he has to do. His mum used to do it whenever he came home from school with another bruise on his arm and tears in his eyes. So, as soon as the first sob leaves her mouth, Sherlock tugs her arm until she falls gracelessly into his lap. In hindsight, the arrangement is probably more practical with a tired six-year-old who’s craving affection than a grown woman with a dad in an ICU. Still, she adjusts her position and leans into him, burying her face in his shoulder and resting a hand on his chest. He wraps his arms tight around her. She knows he’s probably uncomfortable, but appreciates it all the more for that fact. The more she cries the, warmer she’s getting, so he pushes her hair from her clammy forehead and presses his lips lightly to her cheek. When he hears her sobs dissolve into sniffles he begins to gently rub her back, coaxing her to sleep in his arms.


	9. I saved a piece for you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly knows how to cheer Sherlock up.

2014

 

Like clockwork. Every day since John and Mary have been away, like clockwork, Sherlock comes hurtling into the lab at 3 o’clock. On the dot. So precise with his timing is he that Molly’s beginning to wonder if he simply hovers outside the door waiting for the minute to turn over. Now, as she does the same from the other side, 3 o’clock becomes one-minute past, and panic sets in. Panic. Over sixty seconds? Then again, she reasons, a Sherlockian sixty seconds converts to an alarmingly large number of mere mortal minutes. Fifteen minutes later, just as Molly begins considering a missing person’s report, he finally bursts in. His face is thunder, but his aura is lightning as the adrenaline rolls off him in waves that crash and break continuously against the barriers he continues to construct around himself. She engages in a few deductions of her own.

 

“How was the case? Who’s upset you?” She prods, signing the sheet of paper in front of her before turning it over. He groans in response, dropping heavily into the stool opposite her as a pout manifests itself on his lips. “Sherlock.” She warns.

 

“The case would have been fantastic. Anderson’s general being has upset me.”

 

“As it always does, so what specifically has he done to you today?” A certain metaphor regarding teeth and the pulling of them springs to mind.

 

“There was a small disagreement on the premature removal of a body from a crime scene."

 

“By ‘premature’ you mean ‘prior to your arrival’, yes?”

 

“Yes. Standard issue comments about me not being paid to solve their crimes. Apparently he thought that by rekindling that discussion without John there it would have a greater effect.” He drops his chin into his hand and snatches her pen from her hand, scribbling furiously on a piece of scrap paper. Molly thinks better of telling him that Anderson appears to have been right. Instead, she listens to his world-weary sigh and moves around the table to rest a hand on his back. When he goes clean through the paper she takes the pen back from him and attempts to distract him.

 

“Here’s something that might interest you.” She starts, signing off the last of the papers and stacking them neatly at the edge of the desk.

 

“You’re exceptionally obvious.”

 

“And?” She raises a challenging eyebrow. He rolls his eyes and gestures for her to continue. “We received a donated body this morning. Heterochromia, and colour blindness.” He perked up at that alone. “We dissected the eyeball a couple of hours ago. **I saved a piece for you.** ” That was apparently sufficient cause for a gleeful smile. “Don’t tell anybody, I’ll get in trouble.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Can I have it now?”

 

“You can have it when you cheer up, you miserable sod.” He nods and sits up straighter as the anticipation finds its way into his posture, noticeably replacing the moroseness he had entered with. Whether that’s a natural occurrence or one he has conducted in order to receive his gift she’s not sure, but she goes off to retrieve it anyway. Anything to see him smile.  


	10. I'm sorry for your loss.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly knew it was coming.

2002

 

It was inevitable. Molly knew that, of course she knew that, but inevitability does very little in the way of comfort. The call had come two hours and forty-seven minutes ago, and nothing in the last two hours, forty-six minutes and fifty-nine seconds had felt entirely real. As she walks home, the wind thrashing against her cheeks, everything seems cloudy, shrouded in haze. Her dad had been stable yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, laughing and joking as best he could and now that feels a lifetime ago. She can’t place anything on a timeline to make this make sense to her. He’s gone and she’s never going to hear that laugh again. She wants this to be a joke, but knows in her heart that it’s not. As her eyes fill up again she picks up the pace, trying to make it back to the flat before the tears spill over again. She unlocks the door, taking heaving breaths to maintain some kind of control, and gracelessly drops her coat and bag. Everything slows down in her head and she glances up to see Sherlock, the singular thing anchoring her to the world at the moment, contorted on the sofa with a book in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

 

“Evening.” He smiles. Molly opens her mouth to respond but is instead forced to press her lips together. Her body seems to curl into itself until she takes on the appearance of a child being scolded for drawing on the walls. It only takes a shuddering breath for Sherlock to gauge that something’s wrong. “Alright?” He puts down the mug and drops the book, extending his arms out to her as he heads towards her. She rushes to him as the wind had against her, pressing her body into his. She doesn’t need to tell him what’s happened, the gravity of the sounds of pure anguish that tumble out with every rush of tears is tangible, weighing down on the room, and sufficient in telling him that the worst has happened. He’s silent for a moment, and the only _useless_ thing he can think to say falls unsolicited from his mouth, mumbled against her hair.

 

“ **I’m sorry for your loss.** ” He kicks himself as soon as he’s said it, but the fingernails that begin digging into his back as he holds her tell him that the sentiment is appreciated. He wishes he had something more heartfelt to say but the reality is — and the pair of them are rational enough beings to know it — no amount of kind words is going to change the truth.

 

He manages to get her to the sofa. He sits with her until she’s cried every tear she has in her, until she lies exhausted against his chest with her cheeks sticky and her eyes swollen.

 

“Come on. Let’s go to bed.” He mutters, rubbing his hand across her arm. She shakes her head, grabbing a handful of his t-shirt to keep him exactly where he is. “Why not?” She sniffles and clears her throat, clearing away the cobwebs that an hour’s silence has created.

 

“Don’t wanna be alone.” He sighs, a sympathetic noise that comes with a tight squeeze.

 

“I mean in my room. I’m not going anywhere.” That appears to have been her only cause for hesitation. She ventures briefly to her room and skips her night-time routine in favour of shedding her clothes and pulling on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. She heads across the living room to Sherlock's room. Sherlock already lies under the duvet, allowing Molly to slip between the sheets and plaster herself against him, anchored to the world this time both by the arm that falls across her middle as Sherlock settles himself behind her and the quilt that weighs heavily on top of them in the single bed. The silence that surrounds them now is no longer susceptible to shattering at any moment, but has her drowning in an exhausted tranquillity. No sooner has that thought manifested itself than Molly is jolting awake again, wondering if that’s how it must have felt for her father. Sherlock tightens his grip, reminding her of his presence, as Molly grips onto his arm in response.

 

“I’m here. It’s okay.” Eventually, she is able to believe him.


	11. You can have half.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transport inevitably needs fuel.

2014

 

It’s hardly a surprise that the working day of the world’s only Consulting Detective doesn’t start at nine and finish at five. Still, that does little to stop Molly from jolting in her seat when Sherlock bursts through the door to her office at 12:45 pm, and deposits himself heavily but gracefully into the chair on the other side of her desk.

“Hello?” It’s a question, and it falls out around a bite of pasta. She raises an eyebrow.

“Hello.” He mirrors her expression.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Well, I’ve just finished a case and haven’t got anywhere better to be.” He’s met with an eye roll large enough to pull a muscle before he's finished his sentence.

“No, I suppose not.” She resigns and diverts her gaze to the plastic container in front of her.

“Are you annoyed?” She goes to speak. “You’re annoyed. Why are you annoyed?”

“Just, don’t worry, Sherlock. How was the case?”

“Long.” If she cared to look up, she’d realise he’d begun eyeing up her lunch. How long had it been since he’d eaten?

“Long?” She scrunches her nose in something akin to distaste. “Your adjectives are usually a bit more… colourful than that. Not exciting enough for you?”

“Not as exciting as it had initially appeared is more accurate.” She gives a genuinely sympathetic frown. He must be missing John by now, but wedding planning must take priority.

“Never mind. Something else will come up soon.”

“Mmm.” If he wasn’t so engrossed in deducing the exact brand of mayonnaise she’d used in her meal he might have noticed that she’s figured him out by now.

“Are you hungry? **You can have half** of this if you’d like.” He looks a touch embarrassed at the prospect, cheeks flushing. He’s ravenous, but something - not his brain or stomach - compels him to say no.

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask if you were fine, I asked if you were hungry.” He can’t pinpoint the exact moment that she became confident enough in their relationship to meet his defiance with her own, and he really has tried, but what he knows for certain is how entirely _better_ their conversations are for it. He smirks, and enunciates carefully:

“No, I’m not hungry.” She nods, smiling.

 

A few minutes later, his stomach rumbles. Rather dramatically. Sherlock continues to ramble over it. She pretends, for his sake, not to have heard it. Instead, she opens her laptop and pushes her container to one side, fork still resting in the meal. He waits a few minutes as if trying to decipher if she’s going to return to it. When she pulls out an orange and starts to peel it he seems content that she’s finished and pulls the container nearer to him. She continues to type, muttering quietly:

“You’re welcome.”

“Shut up.”


	12. Take my coat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire alarms and early mornings.

2002

 

Have you ever had a dream rooted in reality? Stupid question. You’ve never had a dream _not_ rooted in reality. Still, some are, perhaps, more deeply rooted in it than others. Molly Hooper lies fast asleep, dreaming of an alarm she cannot figure out how to stop.

 

“Molly?” She can’t stop that either. “Molly, come on.” She groans, finally coming back down to earth. That _bloody_ alarm is still going.

 

“Go ‘way, Sh’lock.” She hears a chuckle from across the room.

 

“Are you deaf?” Despair. She finally opens her eyes and glares blearily at _him_ , standing in the doorway wearing... a coat? “That’s the fire alarm. Get up.” She hesitates for a second before deciding that no, potentially burning to death in the Great Court uni halls isn’t the way she wants to go, and gets up. Sherlock watches from his position in the doorway. In her contact lense-less vision, he is simply an outline, but a rather beautiful one. To him, she’s rather beautiful too; he can see perfectly. Molly doesn’t even bother putting her glasses on, just forces her way into a pair of pumps and heads towards the backlit shadow in the corridor. Her currently permanent frown is lost on him as he nudges her down the stairs.

 

“This is fucking stupid.” She mutters as they walk up the path to the assembly point.

 

“I agree.” He’s glad she can’t see his smirk while she walks in front of him.

 

“What wanker set the fire alarm off at quarter to four in the morning? What could you even be _doing_ at quarter to four in the _fucking_ morning that could set off a fire alarm?” He laughs this time. Properly laughs. “It’s not funny!”

 

“Oh, it is." She rolls her eyes and marches on.

 

They eventually arrive at the assembly point and stand patiently in line to be registered, the alarm still ringing but muted by distance. Minute by minute the time drags on, and Molly begins to wonder how this could be taking this long. She yawns audibly and registers suddenly how cold it is, shivering delicately.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“No I’m not okay. I’m tired and I’m freezing cold.” Sherlock still can’t help but find the situation a little bit comical, but he can’t watch her suffer either.

 

“ **Take my coat.** ” He says gently, slipping the coat off and draping it around her shoulders. He rubs her arms, doing his best to give her some warmth.

 

“Thank you.” Her voice has lost the edge of hostility she’s been harbouring since her rude awakening.

 

“S’alright.” She waits for a couple of seconds, before biting the bullet and shuffling backwards. He’s ready and waiting, adjusting his posture to let her stand between his legs and lean back against his chest. “Won’t be long now.”


	13. Sorry I'm late.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes his return.

2014

 

After living alone for so long, you get used to the noises that your house makes. However, such rules are obsolete at three in the morning. So, when Molly wakes up to the solitary sound of a door slamming, she is suitably terrified. She manages to bite her tongue, resisting the (counterproductive) urge to greet whatever heavy-handed being is lurking in the darkness. She closes her eyes and turns over, pulling the duvet a little bit closer on instinct. The prevailing silence suggests that she must have been imagining the disturbance.

 

Except that a minute later she hears her cat meowing, and a distinctively human voice respond to him. She had really hoped that the being wasn’t human. She can feel her heart rate picking up, an odd feeling manifesting in her stomach when the voice doesn’t seem to stop. She sits bolt upright in the bed, looking around the room for anything she could use as a potential weapon, and comes up short.

 

“Bollocks.” She mutters to herself, shuffling to the edge of the bed.

 

The mumbling voice draws nearer, the sound of footsteps following close behind. At this point, she doesn’t particularly care if she gets robbed, as long as the voice drifts right past her door.

 

But it doesn’t.

 

In fact, the door handle is currently twisting, and the door creaking open.

 

And there, with the ambient glow of the bathroom light silhouetting his frame in the doorway, stands Sherlock Holmes (with a cat curled up in his arms and nosing at his jaw).

 

“...Sorry I’m late.” He mutters, scratching at Toby’s head.

 

She rests her hand on her chest and inhales deeply, eyes closed, regaining her composure, and then extends it out to him. He pulls her to her feet, bedclothes tumbling to the floor and pooling around her, and embraces her with one arm, and then lets Toby down to draw the other around her too.

 

“Why have you been gone for so long?” She asks, when she is able to draw her hands away from his chest. He chooses his words carefully.

 

“It wasn’t... really up to me.” The pause is full to the brim of stories unspoken, stories that she doesn’t want to hear and he doesn’t want to tell, not at three in the morning, not ever. She reaches her arms around him, fully intending to squeeze the life out of him, but is stopped in her tracks when he cries out in pain, hissing as his face screws up. She pulls back, panic pooling in her eyes.

 

“What? What’s the matter?”

 

“My back.”

 

“What about your back?” she frowns, circling him and lifting the back of his shirt up before he has the chance to stop her. She can’t even find the words to ask him what happened.

 

“Not now, please.” She nods. He can’t see her, of course, but he knows anyway. “Put it down please.” She carefully pulls his shirt back down and returns to his front.

 

“Do you want to come to bed?” Her voice has gotten quieter, gentler. He’s not sure if he hates it or adores it. He nods imperceptibly. She grabs the bedclothes from the floor and settles them on the mattress, pulling back a corner to encourage him to lay down. With a little help, he is settled carefully on his front, arms wrapped around a pillow that he burrows his face into while she climbs in next to him. She pulls the duvet up around them and settles down on her side, resting her hand on his bicep and soothingly running her thumb across the muscle. He cannot remember feeling quite so grounded in a horrifically long time. He turns to face her, cheek smushed against the pillow, and takes a deep breath.

 

“Why do you never use the key? Why can’t you just text to say you’re coming?”

 

“The element of surprise.” He chuckles.

 

“The element of _cardiac arrest_.”

 

He employs rather the same element when he sneaks up on her in the locker room mirror on the following day, his reflection smirking back at her.


	14. Would you like to dance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly sit in the back garden of a third year uni house while a party they don't want to be at continues inside.

2002

 

Neither of them is sure. Of a lot of things.

 

Sherlock’s not sure why - or when - he agreed to come to this party with her.

 

Molly’s not sure why she wanted to come in the first place. Something to do with Meena.

 

Sherlock’s not sure if the people at the other end of the overgrown garden are blurry because they’re at the other end of the garden or because he’s had one too many.

 

Molly’s not sure if she wants to go home or continue to sit just outside the back door of this third-year house in a cheap plastic garden chair, cardigan draped around her shoulders and hair sticking to her face with drying sweat, shrouded in welcome darkness.

 

Sherlock’s not sure where his lighter is. (He takes somebody else’s off the table.) They’d come outside twenty minutes ago when the heat of forty-odd bodies pressed too close together in a dingy living room had finally become unbearable. Some respite was to be found outside: it’s midnight in the middle of May, and the temperature plummeted hours ago. Molly finds herself regretting her outfit choice as she glances across at Sherlock, forehead glistening with lingering sweat and goosebumps raised on his arms as he tries to light his cigarette. Eventually, it’s too painful to watch him repeatedly missing the spark wheel; she takes the cigarette from between his lips and lights it herself, stealing a long drag before she hands it back.

 

"Is it cold?" Sherlock asks, having finally noticed that she's wearing a cardigan. She'll forgive his slowness; his observational skills have been dulled somewhat in the last few hours.

 

"Incredibly." She confirms, with a nod. He doesn't look convinced, and a small, childlike frown manifests in his features. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table (which looks only slightly less steady than Sherlock) as Molly crosses her legs. The unidentified people from the other end of the garden walk right past them and back into the herd, slamming the door shut behind them. The music continues to blare from inside, threatening to push the grimy glass out of the window frames and still seeming a world away.

 

"Do you know any of these songs?"

 

"About four in the last hour." No, then. He can never just say he doesn't know, can he? He takes another drag of his cigarette and then pushes it in Molly's general direction as he exhales upwards. She accepts, inhales, and returns it. He looks as though he's about to speak, but his train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the song changing - which prompts a roar of appreciation from the herd - and overflowing into the garden. Instead of speaking, almost involuntarily, he quietly mutters the first line. _Poor old Johnny Ray._ Molly smiles as she watches him take a swig of his drink to stop himself from continuing. She can hear him tapping his foot as he drums his fingers on the table. He hasn't seemed this interested in anything all night.

 

 **"Would you like to dance?"** She offers, pushing her hair away from her sticky face and shuffling to the edge of her seat. The question doesn't quite compute properly.

 

"Profess'ly?" He slurs. "Maybe. Always quite liked it. Used to be quite good at tap when I was little. Better at ballroom when I got older." She gives a small chuckle and the penny drops. "I never said that." He points an accusatory finger, and she raises her hands in surrender. "No." He exhales and stubs out his cigarette. "Don't want to dance. Do you?" She shakes her head with a fond smile and leans closer to place a gentle kiss on his shoulder.

 

There's a moment of comfortable quiet before Sherlock pipes up.

 

"That's not their best." He's frowning again.

 

"Sorry?"

 

"Dexys Midnight Runners. That's not their best song."

 

"No?"

 

"No. Jackie Wilson Said. I'll play y' it later." She nods, looping her arm underneath his. She’s sure now; she doesn’t want to go home. She’s quite content in her garden chair.


	15. I made your favourite.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'll never be happy with all your grades (even when there's nothing wrong with them).

It doesn't matter how many times you get a bad grade; it always feels the same. Earth-shattering. You put in hours of admittedly inconsistent caffeine-fuelled work, and for what? So that you can listen to everybody else muttering about how well they did? Or, worse, so that you can listen to an empty chorus of 'that's still good!'. Well, no thank you. Molly would rather just tuck herself away for the day with a book, a cup of tea, and a blanket if it's all the same to you.

 

That's how Sherlock finds her when he rolls in after his tutorial: curled up on the sofa using her arm as a headrest, reading glasses askew. Sherlock hasn't closed the door before he figures out what's wrong (her returned essay script is open on their dining table, at an angle that suggests she threw it rather than placed it there).

 

"What did you get?" He says by way of a greeting as he drops his bag next to his bedroom door.

 

"Leave it, Sherlock." Her eyes remain on the page.

 

"That's the seventh time you've read the same line."

 

"Sherlock, please." She drops the book and takes her glasses off, discreetly rubbing her temples.

 

"Oh, just tell me."

 

"Sixty-two." She mutters into the sofa cushion. He nods, silent while he flicks through a newspaper from sometime last week. "Christ, thanks for the vote of confidence."

 

"You don't want a vote of confidence, or you wouldn't be talking to me. And if you didn't want to be talking to me, you'd be in your room and not out h–" Her bedroom door slams behind her. Well. He should've expected that. He sighs to himself and heads out again, approximately 120 seconds after he'd sat down.

 

* * *

 

 

When he returns – forty minutes later – Molly is sat at their dining table reorganising a Pot Noodle. Sherlock drops his keys and wallet and picks up the plastic container and drops it into the waste basket, replacing it with a bag from the chip shop in town.

 

"I made your favourite."

 

"You mean you bought my favourite." She corrects.

 

"Same difference." He shrugs.

 

"Oh dear. Has somebody been spending too much time with his big brother?" Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

"Oh, very good. Now, if you could contain your hostility for two seconds," Sherlock drops a piece of paper depicting a series of calculations onto the table in front of her. "You were worried that your mark would skew your grades enough to stop you getting a first. So, that tiny number there," he points to '2.5%' in the bottom right corner. "Is how much of your second-year grade today's sixty-two is worth. Taking into considering your previous scores, you could have gotten a 0 on that assignment and still get a first this year. How's that for a vote of confidence?" Well, he wasn't going to tell her that it's 'still good', was he? He begins removing their dinner from the brown paper bag and spreading it out on the table. "Yours have got vinegar. Disgusting, by the way." He points to a portion of chips. She chuckles.

 

"Why couldn't you have said that earlier?"

 

"That I don't like vinegar?" He smirks as she rolls her eyes. "You didn't want me to say that earlier. You wanted to read your book and be angry earlier." She can't disagree with him.

 

"Thank you." She says with sincerity. He frowns and shakes his head.

 

"Don't thank me. Just eat your ruined chips and stop worrying about numbers." 


End file.
